


Happiness in Slavery

by HaniTrash



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bottom Steve Rogers, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, HYDRA Trash Party, HYDRA sex dungeon? Yes please!, Hurt No Comfort, Hydra Holiday Trash Party Gift Exchange 2019, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Restraints, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22036876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaniTrash/pseuds/HaniTrash
Summary: Steve is captured while on a mission and wakes up in a very uncomfortable position, surrounded by some very familiar people. Apparently HYDRA knows it can't break his body, so they set out to break his spirit instead.And as it turns out, even the great Captain America can be broken.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Brock Rumlow, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 24
Kudos: 100
Collections: Hydra Holiday Trash Party Gift Exchange 2019





	1. Chapter One: The Blind Have Been Blessed with Security

**Author's Note:**

  * For [theletterelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theletterelle/gifts).



> My submission for the HYDRA Holiday Trash Party gift exchange! Request was for Brock, Steve, Bucky, with whipping and unwilling submission. I opted for caning, because I'm not very familiar with actual whipping and didn't want to get it wrong, and hopefully my giftee approves of the choice!
> 
> Work title and all chapter titles from the Nine Inch Nails song "Happiness in Slavery", which I listened to far too much of while writing this, lol.

Brock loves how wild the Asset is when he first wakes up, before they put him in the chair to make him compliant. He’s unpredictable, damn near unstoppable at times, if they don’t get him in the chair soon enough, and on occasion they’d needed to use one of his trigger phrases to drop him.

“Asset! You did so well on your last mission, you get a reward. Come with me.”

The Asset’s head snaps around at the sound of Brock’s voice. He tips his head slightly to the side, brows drawn together in confusion, as if he _knows_ this is wrong but doesn’t dare voice his concerns. Of course, that could also be giving him credit for more brain functioning than he actually has at the moment, and he might just be trying to understand what Brock is saying. Fuck, he loves messing with the Asset. And this time, it was even sanctioned!

“Come on, you know you can trust me. You’ll love this, I promise. It’s a gift from Pierce.”

Brock watches a shiver run through the Asset and suppresses a grin. It’s a beautiful thing, the way the Asset reacts to Pierce. Brock is in awe of Pierce and how he controls the Asset.

The Asset swallows.

“Ready to comply.”

This time Brock lets the grin spread wide.

“This way, Soldier. Here, drink this on the way. You need your supplements, you know that. Wouldn’t want you to pass out before you’ve finished your reward, now would we?”

The Asset doesn’t reply, just obediently chugs the bottle that Brock hands him. _Christ_ he loves the Asset. He’s definitely Brock’s favorite toy. He can’t _wait_ to see what the Asset does with their new toy. Brock had expected Pierce to want first crack at breaking the new one, but he hadn’t known what the Secretary knew, and the man’s plan was diabolical to say the least.

Brock _loves_ the Secretary’s plan. Shit, he might even love the man himself. He’d probably get down on his knees right now for that old bastard as a thank you for being allowed to execute this plan.

“You’re so good for me, Asset. Thank you,” he says, sure to make himself sound sincere and grateful, reinforcing the conditioning and the bond between them. _One day,_ Brock vows. _One day, he’ll be just as much putty for me as he is for Pierce._

They enter a room that the Asset is familiar with—for lack of a better term, it’s the Hydra sex dungeon, and that just makes Brock giddy every time he thinks about it. But today, it’s not the Asset being used. Today, the Asset gets a present.

“Hey, Asset, do you know that today is your birthday? We woke you up just for this. Ninety-seven fucking years old. Do you know that? Nah, of course not. You think it’s still nineteen-forty-five, don’t ya? Still think you’re with the men who found you half-dead in the snow, huh?”

At Brock’s words, the man that is strapped down, naked, and bent over the bench with his ass on display, thrashes wildly, screaming behind the gag stuffed in his mouth and the hood over his head. Brock laughs.

“I see you’re awake, princess. Don’t bother trying to get out, this whole room was made to withstand the strength of him. You’re not going anywhere.”

Brock glances back at the Asset. He’s watching the scene, eyes darting around the room, looking for the trap. _Waking up. More alert. This is gonna be great._

“Asset.”

His eyes snap to Brock.

“You know what happens to you, when you’re on that bench, right? You remember that much?”

The Asset nods.

“Words,” Brock barks. “He can’t see you.”

“ _Da_. Yes.” The Asset’s voice is gravelly, both from general disuse and from being freshly thawed.

“Good. It’s your turn, then. Anything you want to do to him.”

“Mission?” It’s a single word, but framed as a question, and Brock practically purrs, because the Asset has just made this that much sweeter.

“Yes, excellent. You’re so good, Asset. You can view this man as your mission. He has misbehaved. He needs correction. Punish him. Any way you want. With any of the tools that are used on you when you receive punishment.”

“Objective?”

“Pain, of course, for him. But what else happens when you are punished?”

The Asset pauses, cants his head, studies the offering. He swallows, glances at Brock’s crotch, and then down at his own, where the drugs are already making him hard.

“Pleasure?”

“Very good, Asset.” Brock strokes his hair. “Pleasure for who?”

“You,” he immediately replies.

“Well, yes, for me, usually. But pleasure for anyone who is carrying out the punishment. So, if you are the one teaching the lesson today, who gets to have pleasure?” He waits, watching the Asset process the concept, and then try to decide if he’s supposed to answer, or if it’s a trick question.

“Pleasure...for...the Asset?” he finally asks, cautiously.

“Yes! Pleasure for you! I told you, this is a reward for you today. It’s your birthday. You earned this.”

The Asset rubs a hand absently over his crotch, adjusting himself. The drugs they’d laced his supplements with would keep him hard for hours, no matter how many times he came, until one or both of the men broke. He looks around, and takes a tentative step toward the wall with the whips, crops, and floggers. None of them are friendly, they all have metal spikes and frayed ends, intent on causing more damage and pain than pleasure.

“Oh, one more thing, Asset,” Brock says, almost casually, as the Asset reaches for the smallest of the paddles first. His hand stays as he waits, listening. “This man here is enhanced, just like you. He has a higher endurance than regular men. Higher pain threshold. Bones don’t break easily. And he heals faster. Same. As. You.”

The Asset’s arm drops, and he appears to study the wall carefully as he processes the new information. Brock could almost swear that he sees the Asset’s breathing kick up slightly, and the whimper that comes from the new toy only makes Brock grow even harder than he already is.

The Asset comes back with the thick bamboo cane. It’s new, Brock had broken the last one during the Asset’s last session, and Brock is already making a mental note to order another one after today, because he doesn’t expect this one to last.

“Oh, Asset,” he breathes. “That’s a good choice.”

The Asset takes a few test swings in the air, getting the feel of the cane, as Brock moves toward the hooded man’s head. He caresses him through the heavy material, presses his mouth up close to where his ear is.

“Today _is_ March tenth, isn’t it? You know whose birthday it is, don’t you? Don’t worry. He doesn’t know a thing. Shit, he doesn’t even know his own name. Maybe if you’re a good boy I’ll let you look at him before he goes back on ice. But you gotta scream for me, princess. I wanna hear it.” The first swing makes contact right across the perfect curve of his ass, and he grunts. “You’re gonna scream, and you’re gonna get hard and come for him, or you don’t get to say goodbye.”

The man unexpectedly jerks his head to the side, smashing into Brock’s nose.

“You mother _fucker_! You’ll fucking pay for that.” Brock grabs him by the throat, pushing his head up and back at a painful angle. “Asset! You do not get to stop until this man is crying and bleeding, do you understand me? You don’t stop until I say you can.”

He lets the head fall and moves to clean the blood from his face. “Let’s see how strong you really are, princess.” He returns, holding some paper towels to his nose.

“Step one in your education: _order through pain._ Asset, you may continue.”

*****

The Asset was not supposed to take pleasure from anything other than a successful mission. When Commander Rumlow brought him into the room and he saw the man waiting for him—his _reward_ , as Rumlow kept saying—it had caused a glitch in his ~~memory~~ programming. Because he _wanted_ , and he was not allowed to _want_.

“Mission?” he’d asked, and Rumlow had said the magic word, had made it okay to _want_ to hurt this man the way Rumlow and the others hurt him, to take out his anger on this man in ways that he couldn’t do to the STRIKE team, do to him all the terrible things that haunt the fragments of his brain when he is ~~awake~~ malfunctioning.

He takes a swing, and it lands directly across the man's ass. Rumlow is at the man's head, saying something that is of no consequence to him so he isn't paying attention. Then the man headbutts Rumlow, and the Asset pauses, sucks in a breath, waits for Rumlow's response.

You were not supposed to fight back. That only makes the punishment worse.

Sure enough, Rumlow wants him to go until the man is a crying, bloody mess. The Asset rolls his shoulders and cracks his neck when he twists his head side-to-side. Rumlow watches, a feral grin on his face, and orders the Asset to continue. He studies the man, catalogs the places that hurt him the most when he's hit, and calculates the angles almost without conscious effort. The next swing lands across the back of the man's thighs, just above his knees. The man cries out, and before he can suck in a breath, the cane lands at the top of the man's thighs, at the crease of his buttocks. Then again lower, teasing at the back of his knees. His ass. The meat of his thighs. High up on the junction, landing squarely on his exposed scrotum, and _that_ gets him the scream he’s looking for.

The Asset recalculates.

He _remembers_ other Soldiers, others who had received the serum he’d reclaimed from _(name redacted: code name: The Traitor)_ the mission target, and wonders if this is one of them. They are the only others he knows of who are enhanced like himself ( ~~not true not true there’s someone else someone before me~~ ) and they are stronger, better than he is.

He feels a spike of anxiety at the thought.

He must assert his dominance.

He must show HYDRA his worth, must show Commander Rumlow that he is still needed.

He swings again, concentrating his hits on the man’s thighs, randomly striking high enough to catch that scrotum, elicit that scream, keep the man in a constant state of uncertainty and fear.

The Asset pauses, chest heaving as he catches his breath. The man is shaking, but the Asset knows from experience that is from the pain, the biochemical response of the body and the adrenaline surge. The man is not actively crying yet. His legs are a mass of welts, the flesh a deep red, with spots of crimson where the skin has split, and some bruising beginning to bloom. The Asset looks down at the cane and sees that it is compromised, that only a few more swings will break it completely. He swallows his fear, tries not to let it show. Commander Rumlow said nothing about breaking the implements, even though the STRIKE team often made that their goal.

“Is there a problem, Asset?”

“No, sir.”

He makes the decision, hopes it is the correct one, as he does not wish to be punished as well, and takes one last powerful swing. The cane makes a _whooshing_ sound as it travels through the air and comes down on the man’s ass. It shatters on impact, small pieces of bamboo flying as the man cries out again. It sounds like he’s cursing—or trying to, at least—around the gag. Rumlow is laughing. It’s not the laugh that sends chills through the Asset though. Instead it is a true laugh, he seems genuinely pleased, and the Asset knows he made the correct choice.

He lets the broken bits drop from his hand as he returns to the wall. There are shelves that hold insertion objects of varying sizes and shapes. He remembers them being used on himself. Often, the team members would use them because their bodies could not endure what his could. But if he is to show his worth, he should do this himself, not with the assistance of objects for penetration. He grabs a bottle of some sort of liquid. Based on its location, and on his own memories, he believes it to be a lubricant to ease entrance into the body. There was always a pattern to his punishments: external pain, penetration, more external pain, additional penetration, until the team had exhausted either him or themselves.

He’d broken the cane, so now it was time for penetration.

The Asset returned to the bench and eyed the man’s ass. He knew Rumlow was watching him, could feel his eyes burning holes into him. It didn’t matter. He would pass this test, just like he’d passed all the others. He pushes down his shorts and coats himself with the lubricant. The man’s ass is dry, save for the sheen of sweat across his entire body. After a pause to think, pull up more memories, he dribbles some over the man’s hole. The man makes a strangled sound and begins to shake his head back and forth. _Refusal is not allowed. Who said that you were allowed to think and want for yourself? This is punishment. This is you learning your place. Take it and say thank you._ Rumlow’s words, spoken at another time, directed at him, but still appropriate.

The Asset chooses to remain silent, though. He is not sure he is allowed to speak directly to the man he his punishing. Better to leave that to Rumlow.

He settles into position behind the man, ignoring the leer on Rumlow’s face, and pushes in. There’s a slight drag, it’s a bit dry still, and uncomfortable as the man fights the intrusion. The Asset pulls back, pours more lubricant over their joined bodies, and drives back in. The slide goes much easier this time, and he can’t stop the slight gasp that is pulled from him at the feeling. He is not allowed to penetrate anyone like this. When he receives pleasure, it is from being penetrated and/or a team member manually manipulating his appendage. He takes a few more test strokes and determines that the lubrication is sufficient for his purpose.

The man is still making noises, still shaking his head back and forth. It is not of importance. The Asset understands now why the team enjoys this. He knows how it feels when he is forced to have pleasure—doesn’t really know _exactly how_ he knows that, but he does—and this feels like that, only _more_. Instead of a rough hand painfully pulling at him, the slick heat and press of the man’s body is intoxicating. The Asset understands he is experiencing a hormonal release that is clouding his programming, but he knows that once the burning in his core crests, he will be more clear-headed, able to continue the punishment. His rhythm is erratic as he chases that pinnacle of blinding release of tension. His hands grip the man tightly, metal and flesh fingers alike digging into the welts and cuts left from the cane, creating a whole new set of bruises.

A startled cry escapes him as the tension snaps inside and the release overwhelms him. He freezes, hips pressed up against the man’s ass, as he shudders through the spasms. A muffled sob comes from the man as he drops his head, and Rumlow laughs.

The Asset is aware that his appendage is still hard. He _wants_ that feeling again, and understands that the two are connected. But when he takes a few more thrusts, it hurts, and he remembers then how the team would laugh at his cries when they’d continue pulling at him, forcing him to have that release despite the pain and his tears.

_Tears..._

Rumlow wants the man to be crying.

The Asset steps back and looks beneath the man. He has not released. He presses his lips together in a frown. What did he forget? He returns to the wall of implements, sure that the answer is there. He finds an insertion object. It’s not shaped like an appendage—not even a grossly oversized one—but is flared, with a flat base, and he understands that it is meant to stay in. There are bumps and nubs on the rounded part that goes in, and he thinks that they rub against a particular spot inside his body that the team stimulates to force a release.

Confident in his decision, he returns and shoves it inside the man. The bumps catch on the rim of his opening when the object reaches its widest point and the man lets out another stifled whimper. The Asset gets it in and smacks it forcefully with his metal hand, driving the man’s hips into the bench. He holds the flat base and twists it back and forth until the man twitches, and he sees the man’s appendage jerk in response. He holds the object in place and gives a few small thrusts. The man grunts, his appendage reacts. Pleased with the response, satisfied with the placement, the Asset returns to the wall to find something to strike the man with.


	2. Chapter Two: Don’t Open Your Eyes, You Won’t Like What You See

Steve doesn’t know what went wrong.

Well, _clearly_ , Rumlow is HYDRA, and that had gone _very_ wrong. Apparently, most of STRIKE team Alpha is HYDRA. The problem had been bigger than Nick had realized. Steve and Natasha had been on a mission, raiding a suspected HYDRA safe house with team Alpha, when the comms had gone down and they’d gotten separated, and somehow caught. He prayed fervently to a God he barely believed in anymore that whatever had happened to her, she was not experiencing what he currently was.

Rumlow is in his ear again, spewing more nonsense that Steve is trying to ignore. It was a smart tactic, he had to give him that. Physical torture ( _rape, it’s rape, I’m being raped, don’t fucking compartmentalize and try to suppress it_ ) along with psychological at the same time.

As if the rape wasn’t already damaging enough to his psyche. Nobody in 2014 knew that he’d been in a relationship with a man before the war, they all only knew about Peggy. It was on purpose, of course. He could have been arrested or killed for being _queer_ in the thirties. He could have been court martialed in the army ( _Stevie, who’s gonna court martial Captain America? I missed you so much. I need you. Please don’t shut me out now that you’re here..._ ) if they’d found out. So raping a closeted homosexual ( _technically bisexual but who cares at this point?_ ) was already profoundly terrible for him. But for Brock to then go and claim that it’s Bucky doing the act? His Bucky, the man he’d loved in secret for years, the man he’d _watched die_? It simply wasn’t possible.

But Brock keeps saying things that he shouldn’t know. Things that are beyond his SHIELD classification. Things that, if true, could only be known by privileged information from HYDRA sources...because HYDRA wouldn’t run around shouting from the rooftops that they had Captain America’s best friend as their key weapon for shaping the world. Those are things only very few would know. Things like Zola and Kreischberg experiments, about the Russians finding him half-frozen in the ravine, about Operation Paperclip and Zola again, about cryogenic freezes and memory wipes...Brock goes on and on, whispering in Steve’s ear while _someone_ fucks him, _someone_ shoves a plug in his ass, _someone_ is beating him, each jarring hit rubbing over his prostate as they attempt to force him to orgasm even though he doesn’t want it.

He doesn’t want to believe any of it.

He can’t allow himself to believe it.

He can’t give Rumlow those tears.

He can’t let HYDRA win again.

He can’t let his mind wander, connect dots, think about how quickly Bucky healed after Steve had found him on that table, when everyone said that he’d had pneumonia when they’d taken him. Think about the subsequent year they’d had together, about how easily Bucky shrugged off things that took other men, good men, down.

What if...

No.

He can’t.

But...

A sob escapes him as he comes. The gag in his mouth muffles the sound, but Brock hears it none the less.

“Aww, you breaking already, princess? One little orgasm and you’re done?”

Steve shakes his head, trying to clear it, trying to focus. The overstimulation is painful, and he focuses on that pain in an attempt to ground himself. The hits to his ass stop, and he can feel the skin burn, his nerve endings working overtime as his body is abused. The plug is pulled from him suddenly, fast and jarring and painful as the bumps on it catch and pull at his rim, and he grunts involuntarily. The relief of being empty lasts only a heartbeat as someone shoves their cock inside him once more.

It has to be the same person, he realizes. Nobody else has entered the room, and Brock is still taunting him. Hands grab his hips, and it’s the same as before, one warm, soft (but strong, so very strong) hand on his right, one cold, hard (metal, it feels like one of Tony’s suits, but why?) hand on his left, and there is no denying that this is the same person. He is showing no signs of fatigue, either, despite the beating he’s been giving Steve and already having fucked him once.

That means they’re taking some serious drugs, or...

No.

He can’t think about it.

But the serum...even a diluted version...

_No._

_Don’t let Brock win._

The man changes his angle, steps in a bit closer, and Steve shudders as his cock rubs over his prostate.

“Ohhh, I think he liked that, Asset. Keep doing that. I want you to make him come on your cock. If you release before him, you keep going. I know you can.”

Steve shakes his head, tries to protest.

“Got something to say, princess?”

Brock pulls back the hood enough to expose his mouth and nose. The sudden assaulting reek of sweat and sex in the room nearly makes him gag. Brock keeps one hand holding the hood tightly to discourage Steve from shaking it off, while his other hand releases the clasp on the strap of leather holding the wedge gag in his mouth.

Steve sucks in a breath, the first full breath he’s had since waking up captive. His jaw aches, and he works it slightly before Brock grabs it forcefully.

“What did you want to tell me, princess?”

“Go fuck yourself,” he grinds out of his parched throat. Brock smacks him for it, but the reward is that the hood slips when his head rocks to the side. And yeah, maybe Steve had bargained on that being Brock’s response, and yeah, maybe he sold the hit as being harder than it had been.

Steve manages to get his head free of the hood, even as he understands the increased likelihood of now having to take a cock down his throat. He doesn’t _think_ Brock would go that far himself, but then again, he hadn’t known Brock was HYDRA, either, so there’s that.

He looks around his immediate surroundings as his eyes adjust to the light. He’s not sure what he’d been expecting, but a full-fledged sex dungeon was certainly not on the list. He tips his head back further, allowing his gaze to travel higher, take in as much of his surroundings as he can before Brock decides to blind him again. There’s mirrors running along the wall in front of him. Rumlow is blocking his view, not that Steve is really sure he wants to see what’s happening behind him. He already _knows_ what’s going on, he can _feel_ it as his hole is abused, his hips driven over and over into the hard bench beneath him.

“You know, that’s what I’ve always liked about you, princess. You never give up, even when you know you should. Even when your life is on the line. I’ve seen footage of the Chitauri fight. How many times you got back up, when you could have stayed down.”

Steve shrugs, as best he can given how he’s restrained, and plasters his cockiest grin on his face.

“I’ll heal. I’m like Prometheus. Fuck me raw by day, I’ll heal by night. You can’t hurt me. I can do this all day.”

Brock’s jaw clenches, anger turning his face ugly for a fleeting moment before he schools his expression. Steve can tell he’s pissed, because he knows Steve is right. But then Brock’s eyes flick up to the man behind Steve, and his grin sends chills down Steve’s spine.

“Who said we wanted to break your _body?_ It’s your mind that controls the body, now isn’t it? Control the mind, you control everything. Tell me, _Steve_ , how much can your body take when you know it’s being broken by _him_?”

Brock’s hand fists painfully in Steve’s hair and yanks his head up hard. He grips Steve’s jaw equally tight, controlling his head, ensuring that he can’t move when Brock shifts his body out of the way and gives Steve a clear, unimpeded view of himself and the man fucking him mercilessly. The man who has already come in Steve twice more now. The man who Steve _watched fall,_ the man who _died_ , but somehow didn’t. The man who looks at him now with disinterest, without even a flicker of recognition.

The man who very clearly, impossibly, is one Sargent James Buchanan Barnes.

Bucky.

Rumlow hadn’t been lying.

A strangled noise rises in his throat.

Brock’s fingers dig into his cheeks, holding him in place and preventing him from speaking.

“One word from you to him and he takes your place and I take his.”

Because Steve’s gaze was locked on Bucky’s face, he sees the flicker of fear in his eyes at Rumlow’s words. Bucky’s eyes meet Steve’s in the mirror. They’re the same stormy grey-blue that Steve remembers every night in his dreams. But that’s where the similarity ends. They’re flat, devoid of light and life, devoid of any of the love they’d held the night before he’d died. Bucky’s gaze now is cold, hard, determined, and it breaks Steve’s heart. He can all but hear it shattering in his chest. Steve’s throat closes off, and his head swims, and it feels like an asthma attack, except he doesn’t get those anymore.

Brock lets go of Steve’s head and he wants to close his eyes, wants to let his head fall and stare at the floor until this is over, but he can’t, he _can’t_ , because it’s _Bucky_ , and he’s _alive_ , even if he doesn’t know who Steve is, even if HYDRA did twist him into whatever he was now, Steve can’t look away from him. He can’t look away, can’t stop watching himself be violated by the man he once loved ( _but is it even violation now?_ Steve can’t keep his thoughts straight), because if he never gets to see him again, he’s going to catalog every single inch of him that he can see, burn it so deep into his eidetic memory that nothing else will remain, just Bucky, always Bucky, even as the image wavers and shimmers through the tears clouding Steve’s vision.

“You can make this stop. You just need to come again. You want that, don’t you? He must be getting so tired by now. His movements are getting sloppy.” Brock strokes Steve’s hair, cooing into his ear. “And speaking of sloppy, you should see all the come running out of your ass. He’s unloaded four times now. Do you really want to force him to continue? _You’re_ torturing _him_ now. We’ve never forced more than five out of him. I don’t know if he can continue beyond that. Are you going to do that to your best friend?”

Steve sobs, and lets his eyes squeeze shut, lets his head drop.

“You can save him, Steve. Save him now, like you didn’t back then.”

“Please,” Steve gasps. “Anything.”

“I told you what you have to do to make this stop.”

Steve tries to force the air back into his lungs, sucks in shuddering breaths. He can do this. For Bucky. That flash of panic and fear had told Steve volumes—even though he may be a shell of who he used to be, Bucky didn’t want for himself what he was doing to Steve. And it was clear that he’d had more than enough of it to be able to make that decision. It was a simple ‘kill or be killed’ scenario: Bucky fucked Steve and he wouldn’t get fucked himself. If Steve said or did the wrong thing, that would happen.

And Steve was damned sure that Brock would make him watch.

He was going to kill every fucking member of STRIKE Alpha and every single remaining HYDRA agent and soldier on the face of the entire planet.

“Come on, Steve. Don’t you want to help your friend?”

The tears are running freely now as his eyes remain closed. He violates his own memories, drawing up cherished moments between himself and Bucky, willing himself to hardness, trying to juxtapose furtive couplings of the past with the harried pace at which Bucky was pounding into him now.

_“Christ, Stevie, fuck, this serum, you’re still so goddamn tight, still feels like you did before, Jesus, we just fucked last night and you’re hugging me so tight, fuck, c’mon, sweetheart, I’m not gonna last much longer...”_

_“You’re gonna have to do the work, babydoll, I’m a bit drunk, think you can handle being on top of me? Fuck I know I’m drunk but please, Stevie, I need you so much, jus’ be quiet, baby, can’t let the neighbors hear...”_

_“When we get home, I’m gonna take my time with you, gonna wreck you, sweetheart, see how much endurance that serum really gave you, see if I can milk you dry. Gonna bury my face, my fingers, my cock in this ass of yours until you can’t even remember your own name...”_

Steve comes with a mangled cry, biting back Bucky’s name, refusing to let Rumlow have that last part of his broken heart.

Rumlow claps his hands, giddy laughter bubbling out of him.

“Excellent! Asset, you can stop once you’ve released.”

A warm hand clamps over Steve’s right shoulder, and Bucky’s body leans over his, grinding deep. He makes the first noise Steve has heard, other than the handful of words he’d spoken to Rumlow when they’d entered the room. Forehead pressed between Steve’s shoulder blades, Bucky comes one last time with a loud groan. He lingers there, in that position, catching his breath. Brock either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, and moves away to retrieve a chair. Steve feels Bucky’s lips moving, hears him whispering, and covers his shock with another loud sob as Bucky pulls away, sliding his softening cock out gently as he stands.

“Excellent job, Asset! Now come take care of this for me and we’ll get you cleaned up.” Brocks places the chair in front of Steve and pulls his own cock out at he sits. Bucky makes his way to Brock on shaky legs and falls gracelessly to his knees. Brock has the chair turned sideways so that Steve can see everything.

“No!” Steve cries, unable to stop himself. “You said! Damn you, Brock, you said it would stop. That he’d be done. You monumental piece of shit.”

Brock’s head falls back on a laugh that ends in a moan.

“Fuck this mouth is made of sin. I said he’d be done fucking you. And I told him he wasn’t getting fucked. Didn’t say anything about not using his mouth. Watching that show has made me hard. It needs to be taken care of before we finish your lessons for today.”

Almost against his will, Steve watches Bucky as he sucks Rumlow’s cock, taking him deep. He doesn’t want to see it, but he can’t look away, either. Bucky’s eyes flick up to Rumlow and find the man’s head still tipped back, so they turn to Steve. Fresh tears threaten to spill over from Steve as sparkling blue eyes lock onto his and his broken heart surges within his chest.

Prometheus, indeed.


	3. Chapter Three: Slave Screams (he’s being beat into submission)

Brock makes the Asset clean Rogers up, because he sure as fuck has no interest in doing it, and because it’s fun to watch the mighty Captain America squirm. He’s slightly skeptical about how long it’s taking the Asset to make Cap presentable, wonders if he’s being too gentle or if he’s just _that_ worn out from all the work he had to do straight out of the tube. They’ve never taxed his system like that before. But Brock also knows from past experiments that the longer they keep him from going into the chair after defrost, the quicker his brain resets and he starts to break through.

Whatever the case, Brock is on full alert, trigger phrase on the tip of his tongue should the Asset show signs of rebelling. But his fears prove to be unfounded as the Asset merely cleans the mix of blood, come, and lube from Cap’s ass and legs.

“Clean yourself up, too. And put your pants back on.”

The Asset makes a few wipes at his own crotch and pulls his shorts on, then simply stands and waits for further instruction. Almost _too_ compliant, and Brock studies his eyes, and the uneasy feeling that there’s too much awareness behind the gaze that’s carefully focused on the floor spreads again inside Brock. He taps the comm in his ear, turning it on.

“Jack, what’s your status?”

“Just waitin’ on you, boss,” comes the nearly immediate reply. “Everything is ready here.”

Brock smiles. Rollins is a good second-in-command.

“Care to help escort?” he asks, keeping his tone light. Jack will know, just by the simple fact that Brock is even asking, what the situation is.

“On my way.”

Two minutes later Rollins comes through the door and gasps.

“Oh, now _that_ is a sight,” he says with a low whistle, eyeing the welts and broken skin and bruises from the cane and paddle.

Brock can’t help it, he preens.

“Yeah, the Asset did a good job. Wanna do me a favor and help with the shackles on our illustrious leader here? I think he still needs the proper motivation.” As he finishes speaking, Brock pulls the Glock from the holster on his lower back and cocks it, holding it a mere inch from the Asset’s forehead.

“Pick your head up, princess. Take a look. You try anything while you’re being moved, and I empty this clip into him. Not sure he’d survive a few direct hits to the head and heart. What do you think?”

Brock isn’t dumb enough to take his eyes off of the Asset, and because he’s watching for it, he sees the miniscule tick in his jaw. _Yeah, I see you in there, fucker. Not for much longer._

“All set here, boss,” Rollins says after a minute, and Brock spares a split second of his vigilance on the Asset to look at Jack. He’s leading Rogers with the leash attached to the cuffs now holding his hands together in front of him. They’re connected to thick bands that circle his legs just above his knees, allowing him minimal room to shuffle along. The leash is conductive, with a power source located in the insulated handle, and is capable of dropping the Asset. It also happens to be one of Jack’s favorite toys, whether inside the room or out.

“Good. Lead the way, Asset. Remember, you try anything, Rogers, and I drop him.”

The Asset’s eyes flick to Rogers, look him up and down, undoubtedly taking notice of the fact that the man is still naked and about to be paraded through the base.

“Where to, sir?”

“Maintenance.”

The Asset visibly flinches, and Brock grins wickedly, all pretense of pleasantness long gone.

“You need your chair, don’t you, Asset? Came directly here out of defrost, right? Or were you hoping I’d forgotten?”

The Asset takes a deep breath and swallows.

“Of course, sir.”

And when the Asset’s eyes linger on Cap’s just a second too long, Brock shoves the Asset’s shoulder, spins him around and pushes him towards the door, with a knowing grin and a wink at Rogers.

Brock remembers the first time he'd seen them wipe the Asset. He'd watched with fascination, been rock hard by the time it'd been over. He'd accepted a long time ago that he was a sick fuck and truly belonged in HYDRA. The thing is, he's not even gay. But he gets off on pain. The way the Asset clenches down on the mouthpiece, chest heaving as he braces himself every time, and the straining of his neck as he screams, redness creeping across his skin? And then how fucking _compliant_ he is afterwards? And the ruthless, hyper-focused killing machine he is once given a mission? It's the best goddamned porno a guy like him could ask for.

He can’t _wait_ to see how Rogers reacts. He’s downright _giddy_ with anticipation.

Brock hears a few wolf whistles and cat-calls directed at Rogers, and he does nothing to quell them. But they make it to the room without incident, though the Asset’s steps slow the closer they get to their destination. Brock is all too happy to urge him forward with the muzzle of the gun against the back of his head.

“Move,” he barks, forcing the Asset through the doors.

The Asset drops his head and obediently makes his way to the techs waiting to prep him.

“What the fuck is this?” Rogers asks, balking immediately.

Jack tugs on the leash, and Brock knows Jack, knows that he’s hit a button, even before he watches Rogers fall to his knees with a grunt.

The Asset makes a noise and takes a half-step towards him before he catches himself and freezes in place. But it’s too late, he knows it is as Brock steps in front of him.

“Going somewhere?” he sneers, taser rod in one hand and gun in the other.

“Please,” he whispers, not daring to raise his head and look at Brock, even while straining to look around behind him to see Steve.

“Chair.” It’s not a request, it’s an order, punctuated by his outstretched arm, taser pointing to the metal monstrosity. “Or should I say one of your favorite words?”

The Asset—because that’s all he is, no matter what is going on in that brain of his right now—actually _whimpers_ , and fuck if that doesn’t make Brock’s dick think about coming back to life. He slinks to the chair like a scolded puppy, and sits. Brock watches the metal hand clench into a fist, plates whirring and recalibrating.

“Go ahead. Try it. I fucking dare you. I’ll drop you like the meatsack you are with one word. You’re a fucking machine. A _weapon_. You don’t get to think for yourself. You do as you are told. Now sit back and strap in. And maybe we’ll give him some clothes for the night. Hell, we might even feed him if you don’t give us a hard time.”

Behind him, Brock hears Rogers breathing heavily, biting back sounds as he fights the current running through him from the leash. _Must be the metal arm amplifies. Or Rogers is just that fucking stubborn._

“It’s okay,” Rogers says from where he’s still on his knees. “I’m not really cold.”

Jack backhands him, knocking him to the floor. He steps on the side of his head, grinding his face into the floor, and raises the handle of the leash.

“Jack, he’s supposed to watch this,” Rumlow reminds him quietly.

Rollins huffs in irritation, but he removes his foot and grabs Rogers by the hair, hauling him back up to his knees and then dragging him to his feet.

Brock checks that all the restraints are in place and that the Asset is ready for the techs to start the machine.

“Step two in the education of Captain America: _compliance.”_ He grabs hold of Rogers’ jaw, keeping his head in place as he gives the signal for them to begin.

“No!” the Asset cries, the word muffled around the mouth guard.

“Stop!” Rogers yells at the same time, pushing forward. “What are you doing? Please, no, don’t hurt him!”

“ _Steve!_ ” the Asset screams, clear as day, and Brock smiles wide, suspicions confirmed. He _knew_ that fucker had broken through.

“ _Bucky!_ ” Rogers screams back, nearly unbalancing Brock as he surges toward the chair, struggling against him and the restraints.

“Jack!” Brock calls as he steps aside, and Jack wastes no time, and Rogers drops to the floor, convulsing right along with the Asset. Their combined screams fill the room. Christ, Brock could pound a hole in a concrete wall right now he’s so hard. This is going to be prime spank bank material tonight.

He fucking _loves_ Pierce for giving him this.

Jack kills the current before the Asset’s treatment concludes, and Brock forces Rogers to his knees. Tears and snot and blood make an ugly mess of his face as he stares at the chair.

The halo slides away and a tech removes the mouthpiece as the chair rights itself.

“Asset,” Brock says, calmly.

Dead eyes focus on him.

“Report, Soldier.”

“Ready to comply,” comes the rough reply, words forced past vocal cords made raw from screaming.

“Stand by.”

The Asset stands in front of the chair, hands clasped behind his back, looking like the world’s deadliest statue.

“See, Rogers? _Compliance.”_ Brock squats in front of him, just out of reach should the stupid fuck decide to try headbutting him again. He isn’t interested in having is nose completely broken today.

“Asset. Status?” Brock asks.

The Asset frowns, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Some physical fatigue. Source unknown. Nominal discomfort in lower back and legs from apparent exertion. Easily overcome. Negligible impact on ability to function.”

Brock nods, the answer what had been expected.

“Take your supplements. Get dressed. Comfort, not battle, but functional. You are allowed weapons. You will be required to remain awake overnight to guard this man and will have a mission tomorrow. You have been awake for approximately six hours. You had a mission demanding immediate attention prior to your maintenance session. Do you require anything to enable you to function properly within the parameters I just gave you?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Good. When you are ready, report to the cell. You are to guard this man. If he tries to escape, you stop him. Non-lethal force. He is enhanced, like you. So don’t hold back, but don’t kill him. Understood?”

“Understood.”

“Dismissed.”

The Asset nods his head and strides quickly to the attached locker room.

“You see? He’s not yours. He’s ours.”

*****

They drag him—because he was too numb and too exhausted to even make a nominal effort at walking—down hallways and down a flight of stairs and more hallways until he’s brought to a barren cell. It was clearly meant to house Bucky, with heavy bars and everything made of metal and bolted to the floor or walls. He’s dumped on the unforgiving floor in the middle of the room. Dimly he registers the shackles being removed before the door clangs shut and locks are engaged.

He knows he should get up, catalog the room, listen for the direction of their retreating steps, do something, _anything_ resembling cogent thought and forming a plan.

Instead, he lays there, staring at the drain in the floor a few inches away, Bucky’s words playing on a loop in his shock-addled brain.

_I’m with you, pal._

_I’m so sorry._

_Help me, Stevie. Before they take me away again._

_Steve!_

His eyes only see the terror on Bucky’s face as they start the machine, not the suspiciously crimson stains at the edge of the drain. His ears only hear the screams of Bucky and the laughter of Rumlow and Rollins, not the sound of booted feet approaching. His skin only feels the dampness of Bucky’s tears and the fleeting brush of a kiss between his shoulder blades, not the pelting of foil packs of MRE’s and a pair of pants being thrown at him.

He doesn’t know how long he lays there before a voice pulls him from the fog.

“Eat.”

Steve turns his head and sees Bucky seated in a chair on the other side of the bars.

“Director’s orders.”

He rolls away from the pile, turning his back to it.

“Eat or I’ll subdue you and give you an IV.”

_At least then you’ll be touching me again,_ Steve thinks bitterly. But he sits up with a heavy sigh and tears open a packet, chewing and swallowing mechanically. It tastes like cardboard, and his mouth is already dry, but he refuses to ask for anything to drink. He can feel his body shaking as it burns the energy as quickly as he metabolizes the food, and even though he wants to be stubborn, he soon finds himself choking down two more packs. Whatever the morning brings, he’ll need to be alert, not about to drop from lack of nutrients.

There are a few more packs, but he forces himself to save them, not interested in puking up what little bit they’ve given him by eating too fast and overwhelming his drained system. He’d made that mistake in the war, and once was enough to learn that lesson.

Feeling less shaky, he drags the pants on and moves so that he can lean against the wall. Climbing up onto the cot seems like too much work. The sweatpants are emblazoned with the SHIELD logo, and he can’t help but snort at the absurdity of that. But that also means they must be at a SHIELD base, which would make sense, since it was STRIKE who’d taken him. And if that’s the case, then HYDRA has infiltrated SHIELD. Which means he’d failed, had crashed that plane and nothing had changed...he hangs his head in his hands and replays those last days over and over in his head, trying to figure out what he’d missed.

After an indeterminable amount of time, he hears Bucky shift, move for the first time in what feels like hours.

He’s been avoiding looking at Bucky, even though he knows he’s been studying Steve, watching his every move. Now that Steve is finally returning the favor, Bucky slowly stands. His eyes flick lightning quick up to the camera in the ceiling over Steve’s head. He seems to be deciding something. Steve wonders if he’s trying to figure out if he’ll be punished for whatever he’s thinking of doing, and decides that’s probably exactly what’s happening when he sees Bucky take a deep breath and swallow before slowly moving towards the bars. Steve reads his body language clearly and doesn’t move. Bucky reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small flask. He hesitates a moment before he opens it and holds it out, just the other side of the bars, clearly wanting Steve to come take it. He’s desperately thirsty, and equally as desperate to get close to Bucky.

Slowly, carefully, he stands and crosses the small space until they’re face to face. He searches Bucky’s face for any sign, any indication that he’s in there, but finds only a hard-set face and blank eyes. _His sniper face,_ Steve thinks. _Pure focus and determination. Only the target, the mission, matters._

Bucky lifts his hand slightly, and Steve reaches forward. He can’t help but look down, not wanting to spill a single drop of the much needed liquid.

It’s as he’s drinking, head tipped back to catch the last dregs, that Bucky speaks.

_“Sleep, punk. You need it.”_

The words are barely more than a breath, something he wouldn’t have heard without his enhanced hearing. He doesn’t know exactly what the chair was supposed to do to him, but based on things he’s read of Natasha’s past and the similar device the Red Room used, he has the distinct impression that Bucky is _not_ supposed to know who Steve is.

“Bucky...” Steve breathes, forgetting to keep his own voice down. “Thank you,” he adds awkwardly, handing the flask back.

Bucky glares at him.

“Who the hell is Bucky?”

Steve’s breath catches in his throat. _Fuck._ He hoped he didn’t just screw everything up and put Bucky in more danger.

“That’s you,” he says quietly. “That’s your name. The name I know you by.”

“Your programming is wrong. I have no name. I am the Soldier, the Asset. I am not a person.”

“Then...thank you, _Soldier_.”

Bucky takes the flask back roughly and stomps to his seat.

“My mission is to ensure that you make it to morning in good condition. I’m not being _nice_. I’m doing my _job_.”

If it’s possible for a killing machine to _sulk_ , that’s exactly what Bucky does when he sits back down and crosses his arms, and Steve has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. The actions have taken the sting out of the words, at least. He sits back down against the wall, eyes on Bucky. He doesn’t want to sleep, but he can feel the stresses of the last day and a half pulling him down. Knowing that Bucky is at his back makes it easier to succumb to the exhaustion, and he lets himself close his eyes.

He’s woken to the flask hitting him in the shoulder. At some point he’d slipped to the floor and had slept with his head pillowed on his arm.

“Wake up.”

Bucky’s voice is gruff, commanding, but his eyes tell a different story. He’s apprehensive of what’s coming, which means he knows something of what they plan to do.

“Eat those and drink. They’ll be here soon.”

Steve doesn’t question, doesn’t hesitate, and quickly downs the remaining packs and the water. He no sooner finishes relieving himself—in the drain, because there is no toilet, or even a sink, just the cot—when he hears the footsteps approaching.

Rumlow and Rollins have reappeared, shackles and leash in hand.

“Asset, prep him.”

The bindings are handed to Bucky, who steps through the doorway when Rumlow unlocks it. The door slams behind him and is relocked immediately. They’re not stupid enough to take chances that one or both of them would try to escape.

Bucky steps up to him.

“Up,” he commands, and Steve complies. He keeps his eyes locked onto Rumlow’s over Bucky’s shoulder.

_“I’ll find a way,”_ Steve breathes, lips barely moving. _“I’ll save you somehow.”_

_“Save yourself first.”_

_“Not without you.”_

Bucky looks up from where he’s fastening the cuffs around his legs. Steve hisses and looks down when Bucky pinches his inner thigh—but he sees that it was only his hand, not the cuff, and that it was all for show so they don’t think he’s going easy on him.

_“Don’t let them break you. Not like they broke me.”_ He can see the anguish in Bucky’s eyes, and it’s only through force of will that Steve manages to glare at Bucky for the imagined rough treatment instead of crying at the words the others can’t hear.

Bucky stands, and his arms are restrained behind his back. A collar is buckled around Bucky’s neck, and Brock runs a lead from Bucky’s collar to Steve’s wrist cuffs, then attaches a leash to each of them.

“If one of you steps out of line, you’re getting dropped together. We only need to hit one of these to affect you both. So don’t get any smart ideas.”


	4. Chapter Four: Slave Screams (but he’s glad to be chained to that wall)

They’re led to the room with the chair again. Except this time, that’s not the piece of equipment that is the focal point. Steve had been in far too much shock the previous night to look at the rest of the room, but now he sees that it is much larger than he remembered.

The techs are at the other end of the room from the chair, clustered around a large metal tube that reminds Steve uneasily of the vita-ray tube he’d gone in all those years ago, only more menacing.

At his side, Bucky’s breath stutters, just once, but it’s enough to make Steve even more concerned.

Steve’s breath leaves his body in a rush when a side door opens and Alexander Pierce enters, flanked by more STRIKE members.

“Good morning, Captain! Did you sleep well? I trust you’re enjoying your stay with us? Have a chance to reconnect with old friends?”

“Pierce! I should have known this went all the way to the top,” he growls. He lunges forward, only to be stopped by the leash. He fights to remain upright against the current running through him, tweaking nerves and locking up muscles. Bucky makes a slight whimpering sound next to him.

The electricity cuts off as suddenly as it began as Pierce waves his hand dismissively at Rollins.

“The Soldier here has done impressive work. Shaped the century for HYDRA. But so much of his work is done behind the scenes, out of necessity. And me, I can only do so much, even with my position. But you, my dear boy, you could do so much more for us.”

“Never!” Steve spits, as Pierce has the fucking gall to pat Steve on the chest.

“You say that now. But you don’t know what I offer. You’ve seen the Soldier fresh out of his cryogenic sleep. You’ve also seen him after a session in the chair. What we have learned throughout the years is that if we delay his maintenance sessions, he is able to overpower the mental conditioning. And the longer he is awake after a session without returning to stasis or having an additional session, he also starts to break through. We assume it’s due to the serum, of course. It’s not quite the same as yours, but it’s close.”

Steve’s mind races as he tries to follow where Pierce is leading with this.

“We have a lot of the old files on him, from when Zola joined Operation Paperclip and started his work on the Soldier. Do you know, long after he forgot everything else, he continued to call for you until they found the correct voltage and length of time?”

Steve clenches his fists, digs his nails into his palms, and bites the inside of his cheek to keep his attention on Pierce instead of looking over at Bucky.

“Oh, that rage is beautiful, Captain. How I’d love to channel all your righteous fury to our cause. What a team you two would have made.”

“What do you want from me?” he asks quietly.

“You’re quite intelligent, Rogers. I’m sure you know what I want to hear you say.”

“Never,” he repeats.

Pierce moves to stand in front of Bucky, relaxed, with his hands in his pockets, as though he has nothing to fear from the weapon a handful of inches from his body.

“I wonder what would happen if we ordered him to kill you? Would one of you be able to break his programming in time to save your life? I’m not so sure he hasn’t broken through already, to be honest. I heard about his little performance last night.”

Steve chances a look at Bucky and sees what Pierce does: the flare of Bucky’s nostrils, the set of his jaw, the cold promise of violence in his eyes. But underneath it all there is a subtle awareness to his bearing that was not there when he first came out of the chair.

“Just how strong is your bond, hmm? What would you do to save him, keep him alive? You see, I won’t have much need for him soon. Not once the Insight carriers launch. And when you no longer need a deadly weapon, you must disarm it somehow, disable the threat. But he’s so damned _useful_ to have around.”

Steve’s heart squeezes painfully in his chest. He has to buy them time, has to form a plan, has to find a way, has to...has to...he’ll do anything to keep Bucky alive. And Pierce seems to know that.

“I’m offering you him. You say the word, and he goes into cryo, safe and sound, so long as you cooperate.”

“And if I don’t?”

Pierce shrugs, eyebrows rising and falling in sync with his shoulders, hands still in his pockets.

“You wanted to be Prometheus, I can make you that. We’ll wipe him in the chair, and you get a repeat of yesterday. Every day. Until I get bored of it and kill you both. This doesn’t have to end in a fight, Steve.”

“It always ends in a fight,” Steve grumbles. He looks over to Bucky. He knows, without a shred of doubt, that Bucky will hate this plan. But Steve sees no other short-term solution to achieve the end goal. _The ends justify the means..._ he’d just need to find a way to live with himself for doing this.

“No more chair for him?”

“No more chair, if you do as I say.”

“He stays frozen?”

Bucky’s eyes are wide, wild, and his breathing has become erratic.

“He’ll stay frozen, if you become my weapon.”

“No,” Bucky whispers.

“I get to see him, check on him, whenever I want. And he’s taken out, twice a year, for a week. Without a chair wipe, so I can make sure he’s okay.”

Behind him, Pierce sighs wearily.

“Once a year. Don’t press your luck here, Captain Rogers.”

Steve takes a step closer to Bucky, and he isn’t stopped. He’s allowed to get right up in Bucky’s space, close enough to feel the heat of his body.

“Whatever it takes. Til the end of the line,” Steve whispers, eyes searching Bucky’s.

“Steve, don’t.”

Steve closes the distance, presses their mouths together, desperate for one last touch. He’s pulled away far too soon, and hears Brock whistle low, saying ‘ _no shit, look at that,’_ under his breath as they drag Bucky toward the cryo tube.

“Captain?” Pierce asks, hand over the button that undoubtedly will entomb Bucky within the prison that Steve has just consigned him to. He keeps his eyes locked onto Bucky’s, unable to look at Pierce or anyone else as he seals their fates and opens his mouth to speak.

“Hail Hydra.”

**Author's Note:**

> come yell at me on tumblr!
> 
> <https://hanitrash.tumblr.com/>
> 
> also, check out my published stuff? pretty please?
> 
> [https://www.amazon.com/Loralynne-Summers/](https://www.amazon.com/Loralynne-Summers/e/B00RC8DGGS?ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1&qid=1577730376&sr=8-1)


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